


Proprioception

by HigharollaKockamamie



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, UST, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigharollaKockamamie/pseuds/HigharollaKockamamie
Summary: Some time after the sun goes down, they reach a mutually beneficial understanding. Every month, Ignis picks up the delivery and sets a timer.





	Proprioception

There was still a bell above the door. They had come here, back when their journey was beginning. They had let the freshly repaired Regalia's roar fall silent while they restocked necessities, a category that expanded to contain an old game soundtrack that caught Prompto's eye. Ignis had thought it childish at the time. He hadn't yet known the sustenance that could be taken from nostalgia. 

The place for the transaction was chosen for Ignis's convenience. For the other party, distance was no object. 

The door closed behind him. The tiles were smooth beneath his feet. This week again, the continuing miracle of intact glass. He smelled sandalwood.

“Hello there,” said a voice from father inside, in the ritual of failing to startle him. 

Ignis followed the floor plan and his muscle memory inward. His toe kicked aside something fallen. Cylindrical, heavy. A can of soda. It must have rolled beneath a shelf, to have been missed by the scavengers. 

There were times when Ignis would indulge him in a pantomime of smalltalk.

“What do you have for me?” 

Not today. He had appointments.

There was a rustle of fabric. Knowing that gestures were lost on his audience did not stop Ardyn's hands. “My continued kept promises and a pallet of Lucian military rations. Against the wall, three cubits to your right.” 

Plastic wrap crinkled beneath Ignis's hand, with a squeak drawn by the glove. He followed the edges of the object and knelt to gauge its size. The boxes gave slightly at his touch. 

“I doubt they shall be up to your exacting culinary standards, but they are well within the expiration date.” 

Ignis tore the plastic and removed a box about the size of a hardcover book and promisingly weighty. He opened the cardboard and felt inside. Retort pouches. A useful thing, in these days when they were limited to crops that could feed off the latent elemantic energies in the soil, and when work in the open fields had to be done under heavy guard. 

“So suspicious,” Ardyn sighed. “A less magnanimous man would be insulted.” 

Ignis stood and instructed the pallet to vanish into the Armiger. There was no safer place than within the evidence of Noctis's continued existence. 

Ignis said, “A pair of refugees arrived in Lestallum. They spoke of daemons nipping at their heels all along the way.” 

“And yet they survived to tell the tale. A fascinating thing, human resilience, don't you agree?” 

“They had to kill one. It was a matter of luck that they were armed and capable.” 

“Life is nothing without a little challenge.” 

“If you've lost interest in upholding your end of the bargain, it needn't continue.” 

“Oh, don't threaten so gracelessly. It's uncouth.” He would be spreading his hands, as though argued into a corner. “I shall tighten the leash.” 

Ignis inclined his head. 

“Now,” said Ardyn, with the studied carelessness that was more revealing than naked greed would have been, “do you intend to keep me waiting?” 

Ignis stepped toward his voice. He took his phone from his pocket and said, “Set timer, three minutes.” 

“Tch. Such a stingy man.” 

Ignis did not engage him in an argument. He got what he got, and he knew that by now. 

In this world and any other, everyone had advantages and weaknesses. While Ignis now had the obvious disadvantage, he had been lucky in many ways, and had many tools at his disposal. One was that he had been born with fewer qualms than most. 

Perhaps he would be troubled by this, if he were someone else. 

Though teasing and keeping him waiting might have been of strategic value, Ignis had no taste for ostentatious cruelty. He approached behind where he knew Ardyn to be standing, located him by touch, and wrapped his arms around him.

Through the layers of his clothing and Ignis's gloves, there was no detectable warmth from his body. It was certain that he breathed, however, though that could have been affectation rather than necessity. The expansion of his chest at the contact appeared involuntary. 

The rule was that he was not to move and that he was to remain silent. Once, early on, he had reached back and murmured _May I?_. Ignis had caught his wrist. _You may not_. Another time he had been chatty and pressed the limits until Ignis had called a halt partway through. It was telling that he felt the need to constantly test boundaries, and more telling that he had never repeated the mistake. 

Ignis pressed himself against Ardyn's back, and his hands roamed. The complexity of his coat offered infinite venues for exploration. Ignis knew it far more clearly now than he ever had by sight. It was interesting to feel the large man's body relax against him, soaking in the attention like a lizard basking in the sun. To be honest, Ignis was well aware of how little he gave in return for the immortal's forbearance. It was a calculation against the day when he would be sated and grow bored, and Ignis would find his leverage evaporated. He expected Ardyn to have had his fill long ago, yet each time he returned, never less eager. The coat smelled of sandalwood. 

Ignis's phone buzzed in his pocket. He released him. 

“Until next time, then,” Ardyn said. His voice was, as always, full of the awareness of the melancholy absurdity of this. “A pleasure doing business with you.” 

Ignis left and was not followed.

* * *

“Behold the fruits of my labor. Five score of potions before you. One of antidotes at ten o'clock, and another of elixirs at two.”

The rigid shape of glass was capped with a cork at the top. Ignis began from the left. One by one, he removed the cork, sniffed the contents, and made his count. Twenty with the vinegary tinge of antidote. Twenty with elixir's herbal scent. 

“Really,” Ardyn said, “things would proceed so much more quickly if you showed a little faith.” 

“Many things would be more convenient if you were trustworthy,” said Ignis. Each of the remaining hundred had the sweet smell of potion. 

Ignis pulled a small potato from the Armiger. It was one from the bottom of the stores, rotted through. He poured a few drops from one of the potions onto it and waited until it grew heavier in his palm, and the scent of rot dissipated. Naturally the curatives were all tested more extensively before human use, but it was an effective preliminary. Though there had never yet been an issue, it did not pay to be careless. 

“Clever,” said Ardyn. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

Ignis sent the potato back into thin air and straightened. He said, “Remove your coat, please.” 

Fabric shifted.

“Ten minutes with gloves or seven without,” Ignis said. The choice was a rare treat. 

Ardyn inserted a pause as though the decision he always made were a difficult one. “Without.” 

“Very well.” Ignis worked the gloves from his fingers. “Is there an area you would like to focus on?” 

“My neck, if you would.” 

Ignis took his place behind him. The man was inconveniently tall, so it was possible rather than comfortable to reach to stroke his throat. His skin was textured with stubble, and his neck arched back.

Noctis had knelt on the quay and outstretched his hand to a black cat that listed to the side as it leaned into his scratch, eyes tightly closed, tail swaying.

Ignis's thumb caressed the side of his throat, where in place of a pulse there was the muted sensation of steady movement. There must have been something in his veins that warmed his flesh. To get a solid grip and press more firmly would be as simple as it would be pointless. Perhaps Ardyn meant to taunt him with that, or to play at danger and tease himself with what he could not yet have. It would fit his sense of humor to present a show of nonexistent physical vulnerability while displaying his other, truer weakness. 

Ignis was thorough. He paid due attention to each part of Ardyn's neck and to the portions of his collarbone that could be reached before running afoul of his shirt and scarf. His palms ran over the prickling roughness of his skin. Ardyn's hair brushed against Ignis's cheek as his head lolled. Ignis scratched lightly by the nape of his neck, and felt the drop of his shoulders when he exhaled. He was a responsive and deceptively patient man, this undisputed lord of a world he did not want.

The proximity was quite safe. For Ardyn to kill Ignis would do him no good, though he was capable. For Ignis to kill Ardyn would solve their problems, but he was not able. That task was reserved for someone else. 

They were here to mark time. 

Ignis's phone chimed.

“Wait,” Ardyn said. Ignis felt the hum of his throat beneath his palm. “A moment more.”

Ignis let his hand fall and stepped away. “Our time is up.” 

“You're a tyrant,” Ardyn lamented. There was a footfall and the sound of gathered cloth, an acceded argument. 

Ignis ran his hand across the bottles of curatives and consigned them to the Armiger. He replaced his gloves. 

“Until our next appointment,” Ardyn said. 

The bell above the door rang as Ignis left.

* * *

Ignis had had to remove himself abruptly from a conversation with Gladio. He could feel himself followed by unspoken questions, but today of all days, it would not do to be late. 

“Come in, come in,” Ardyn said. He sounded proud of himself. “I have something special for you.” 

The object was a waist-high, pace-long box made of metal. Ignis's hand closed on a thick cord that ran from the bottom. He could not guess what it might be. 

“An elemantic generator,” Ardyn said, apparently tired of waiting for him to ask. “No need for fuel; only proximity to a natural lightning source. No manual, I'm afraid, but it should be simple enough to put in order. You're acquainted with someone with a gift for machines, are you not?”

A power source that didn't require precious gasoline would be an extremely useful thing. It was not what he was here for today. 

Ignis's fingers trailed along the top of the object, feeling the smooth metal through his gloves.

“So I am,” he said. “I'm sure Prompto can make good use of this. He brought back an interesting story the last time he went scavenging.” 

“Do tell,” Ardyn said, with such sincerity it could only be mocking. “I am starved for conversation.” 

“He was exploring a cave.” Prompto, who used to be so vocally afraid of the dark, did that often now. “He was being pursued by daemons. As he tells it, he was cornered at a ledge and fell backwards.” _You know that thing about your life flashing in front of your eyes? Well now I can tell you, that is a real thing._ He'd been full of the energy and relief of a brush with death, and had gestured emphatically enough that Ignis could hear the bandanna around his arm fluttering. “Yet he landed on solid ground, as though he had moved a few paces without his own knowledge.”

“An easy matter to misjudge,” said Ardyn. 

“Even then, he was certain he would be devoured by daemons. Strangely, by the time he was on his feet, they had reduced to a manageable number.” 

“Impulsive creatures,” Ardyn said. “They come and go.” 

“Prompto is under the impression that he has a guardian angel.” Ignis took a step closer. His boot made a clear tap on the floor. “Or at the least, someone for whom his death would be inconvenient.” 

“What an imaginative young man.” 

Ignis believed the notion of a life passing before your eyes. For him it had not been the past. It had been a future without gunshots and cries of triumph, without Prompto's hand tapping his shoulder, and with a returned prince's questions made unanswerable. 

Ignis undid the straps across the backs of his gloves. He worked them off and placed them in his belt. 

“Strip to the waist, if you would.” 

In the place of questions or banter, there was rustling cloth. That whisper would be the scarf pulled from his neck. The click, his vest. The pauses, buttons. Then a sigh. 

“Take a seat.” 

There was the sound of small objects being swept off the counter, and another rustle. When the silence indicated readiness, Ignis came close. He wrapped his arms around his old enemy and rested his face against his back. His flesh itself had no scent at all. 

“Oh,” Ardyn breathed. 

Ignis took his time. 

Full-palmed, he ran his hands up Ardyn's stomach and down again. Fine hairs textured his skin, doubtless as burgundy as that on his head. Ignis held him braced against him, steadying Ardyn's shoulders against his chest at an angle as though he were a mandolin for slicing vegetables. He ran his fingers up his ribs and slid along the valleys between them. He stroked his throat, and Ardyn's head tipped back to allow him more room to pull his palms hand-over-hand down the stubble-roughened neck. 

Ardyn would call his actions self-interest, as he would call it laziness that kept him from making any effort to persecute the enclaves of humanity, or amusement that had let him watch them prepare desperately, in those early days, for a doomed last stand that never came. In the depths of forgotten ruins, Talcott had read scraps of ancient accounts of a traveling healer. Perhaps fragments of him remained, coated in protective vice like lumps of flour in a poorly-thickened sauce.

No matter what efforts you made, it was never possible to destroy everything. 

Ignis ran his hands down Ardyn's right arm, following the curve of his bicep, trailing over the inside of his elbow, and worked down his forearm to knit his fingers between his. Ignis's hand was slender in comparison. He pressed his thumbs into Ardyn's palm, and heard a bit-back sound. 

“You needn't be silent,” he said, “for the moment.” 

He half expected exaggerated moans for his trouble. What he received were soft breaths and wordless murmurs. Ardyn's hair brushed against Ignis's face from unpredictable angles. He turned pliable, as he had never before been, the weight of his boy settling against Ignis, who abandoned any pretense of denying an embrace. 

Ignis could not say how long it was that he stroked down the large man's pectorals, steadily as putting a worrystone to use. What he became aware of was that Ardyn's body had lost any support but himself, and the sighs and murmurs had faded to long, even breaths. 

The sleep was deep enough that he did not stir as Ignis lowered him to the floor. He leaned him against the base of the counter. To release him felt strange, after so long in contact. Ignis's skin had grown used to his. A bit of groping along the counter, and his hand found cloth. Past the gauzy lightness of the scarf, his fingers buried in the folds of something thick and sturdy. The coat rustled in a complex chorus as he lifted it and draped it over its owner, less in deference to any possibility that he could feel cold than as a declaration of the stubborn decency in this world. 

He pulled open the door slowly, so that the bell would not chime.

* * *

On the day of their next assignation, the shop smelled only of dust. 

There was a sense to an empty room. No breath or motion, a lack of expectation. 

“Ardyn?” Ignis said softly, and received the presupposed silence. 

Perhaps there would be an ambush, an antidote for complacency. His footsteps clipped the quiet, and there was no sound or sharp, smoke scent of materializing daemons. 

On the counter his hands found a square box wrapped in a cloth like a packed lunch. Beneath the knot was a card bearing raised letters of a smoother texture than the surrounding stock. Gilded, Ignis imagined, or something equally vain. 

THESE MAY BE USEFUL SOON.  
I'LL BE SEEING YOU. 

The box opened on soundless hinges and smelled of cedar. Ignis examined the velvet lining from the outside in, and was glad of his care when his fingers encountered metal. 

The daggers were made of a substance that was strange to the touch, lighter and warmer than steel should be, with a quality that left a lingering tingle on the skin. A sense, Ignis thought with a jolt of memory, of the sun. They were beautifully balanced. (Cid would agree as much, whistling lowly, and would say, “You hit a daemon with this, it's gonna sting.”)

To no one, Ignis said, “The gift is appreciated, though the pun is uncalled for.” 

He could not ever say for certain if he had heard the shadows laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> This one has an odd genesis: ages ago, I put a prompt up on the kink meme with this premise, then, thinking it probably wouldn't get filled, started writing it myself. But then, it not only got a fill, but a wonderful one by one of my favorite writers in this fandom - [Deal with the Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298237/chapters/25278336) by jeejaschocolate. Then lately I found the old incomplete fic on my computer and figured, hey, I could finish this up.


End file.
